


Smoke, baby

by teacuphuman



Series: AELDWS July 2017 [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anticipation, Canon Compliant, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Eames prepares for Inception.





	Smoke, baby

**Author's Note:**

> Written for week 2 of AELDWS for Inceptiversary 2017. 
> 
> Prompt: habits and rituals  
> Genre: canon  
> Word count: between 300 to 350 words

It’s harder these days, to find the time and space before he goes under. You can’t smoke in airports anymore, and when he lights up at a job site, Arthur sighs. He has to sneak them on balconies, and out back doors, alone, hiding. 

 

Arthur thinks it’s irrational, that the outcome of a job could hinge on such an inane ritual, but Eames knows better, and without this, he can’t settle. Can’t take on the shape and form of someone else, slip into their skin and under the mark’s defenses. Without this, Eames can’t work.

 

He’s not obsessive, but there are certain aspects that make the moment ripe. It’s not the brand, or even the tar, but if it’s not Arthur’s lighter, Eames can’t get it done. A vintage piece, passed to Arthur from his mother’s father, the old man’s initials etched across the finish. Eames carries it with him always, holding onto it for safekeeping.

 

The flint rasps and the flame sparks to life, dancing and weaving in the dry morning air. The fire wobbles as he breathes in, hazy bitterness spreading over his tongue. The snap of metal comforting and final before he slips the lighter back into his pocket. Smoke burns his throat, harsh and unwelcome on its journey to his lungs, but his skin is already buzzing with anticipation.

 

He holds it for a moment, savouring the rich smoke in his mouth before exhaling a cloud of opaque and deadly air. In through the mouth, out through the nose on the second breath, nostrils flaring as the smoke curls over his face like ghosts of his youth, come back for one last tussle. 

 

Three is all he gets because the stakes may be high, but Arthur hates the way it clings to his hair, his skin, his clothes. Says he can taste it on Eames for days, and there’s nothing Eames hates more than Arthur not touching him.

 

The time has come and they’re calling his flight, so he stubs out the fag, closes his fingers over cold silver in his pocket, and goes to work.


End file.
